Tristan’s P.O.V

The glass of champagne felt cool in my hand, a necessary prop to maintain appearances. The clink of cutlery against glass and the soft swell of orchestral music filled the grand ballroom, where chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks and golden light danced off polished marble floors.

I moved from one circle of investors to the next, exchanging firm handshakes and calculated smiles, each word I spoke tailored to stroke egos and secure futures. Beside me, ...